


The Return

by anintelligentoctopus



Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: Cowboys, Happy Ending, Illustrations, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anintelligentoctopus/pseuds/anintelligentoctopus
Summary: Three years ago Pete Nolan left the drive to work as an army scout. Now he's coming back, but he can't help but wonder if he left it too long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pete left in season 4 and reappears partway through season 7 with no explanation and without a proper reintroduction episode (because season 7 was a mess behind the scenes). So I decided to write it myself.
> 
> This is my first fanfic (first story I've completed in a long time, actually) and has had minimal editing. So if it's a bit clunky, that's why.  
> Thanks to everyone for encouragement!
> 
> Illustrations by me

It had been two days now. Two days of nothing to do but sit in the saloon, drop by the livery stable, or wander aimlessly up and down the short street. Two days of something constantly gnawing at his stomach. Anticipation, maybe. Or fear.

They ought to be coming by soon. He'd asked around enough towns along the trail to figure out roughly where they were. Unless they'd run into some trouble -and they could run into a lot of it- their dust ought to be appearing on the horizon any time now.

 

Spending the day standing at the end of the road squinting out across the prairie wasn't going to make them appear any sooner, and Pete Nolan wasn't sure he wanted them to. He sighed and pulled his hat lower, and turned to walk back in the direction of the saloon, leaving his own small trail of dust as he went. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the two months it had been since he rode out of Fort Sill he wondered if he had made a mistake and the army did still need him. Despite General Morgan telling him he and the army had different ideas about what 'peace' meant. That there was government policy to be followed, and to the letter. That they didn't want any repeats of what happened with General Perry. Even though that had mostly worked out for the best, it almost didn't. They both still got in hot water over it, especially Pete, who got most of the blame.

 

The hinges squeaked as he pushed through the swing doors. The barman gave him a cursory glance before returning his attention to wiping down the bartop. Just that quiet fellow coming in again to buy a drink. Sit at a table for a couple of hours, not talking to anybody, then leave without a word. A couple of hours later he'd be back again. Pete guessed he was used to it by now.

 

He made his way to the bar, casting a glance round the room. It wasn't busy. A small poker game at one table. A couple of men and one who looked barely old enough to drink chatting away by the window. Someone leaning on the battered old piano while one of the girls played.

He ordered a whiskey, pushing a coin across the bar. It was probably watered down. "Who are you waiting for, mister?" He looked up from staring at the wood. The barman's expression was open, curious. No suspicion in his voice.

"What makes you think I am?"

He shrugged. "You got that look about you. Restless-like, wandering around town like that."

Pete gave a wry smile. He had noticed the occasional stare from some of the locals during his frequent wanderings. "Guess you could say I'm waiting on some old friends." Basically true. The whole story wasn't one he felt like telling.

The barman was either friendly or nosy. "Meeting them here?" he pressed, hoping for a slightly less cryptic answer.

"They're in these parts." He made a motion to move away, hoping he would take the hint. He did. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged again, turning away to busy himself with something else.

The kid by the window had approached one of the girls and was trying out his charm on her. She was humouring him, but Pete had a feeling she wasn't interested. One of them had tried getting friendly the previous evening. Not being in the mood, he brushed her off. He wondered if she told the others not to bother with him, because none of them had approached him since.

Normally he quite enjoyed their company, but the way his stomach had been twisting in knots put him off socialising. Mostly he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. The same thoughts he had been dwelling on for weeks.

The kid wasn't doing a very good job. Rowdy would probably have got friendly with half of them already. Saloon girls liked Rowdy. Pete sometimes used to wonder if it was because they saw him as a soft touch or because they genuinely liked him. Probably both. He was good-looking enough and charming enough, and he liked just about every woman he met.

He managed to make his drink last for the better part of an hour. Some people had left, some had come in. One man had quit the poker game, clearly broke. The group by the window had left. By the time he got up to leave it seemed even quieter than when he came in.

He could use something to eat. And some coffee. There was a place a few buildings down that looked slightly more alive than the saloon.  
As he crossed the street he cast a quick glance to the horizon. It was just as empty as it had been an hour ago.

 

Another hour passed, and the shadows got longer.

The remains of his coffee had long since gone cold. A half-eaten sandwich sat next to it. In spite of being hungry he hadn't had much of an appetite. Now there was nothing to do except smoke and stare into his cup or out the window. Not that he could see any sign of them from the window. They must be getting close by now.

He stubbed out the end of his cigarette on the edge of the table. Hell. Sitting in here was making him just as restless as drifting up and down the street.  
He scraped his chair back, the harsh noise on the floorboards drawing a few looks in his direction. He dug a few coins out of his pocket and pushed his hat low over his eyes.

Nothing seemed to have changed since earlier in the afternoon, or even the morning. It didn't look any busier or emptier. Men leaned against veranda posts or slouched in tilted-back chairs. Women walked from shop to shop in groups of two or three. A beat-up wagon trundled past, wheels squeaking, leaving a small cloud in its wake.

He stepped down off the boardwalk, with a mind to swing by the livery stable and check on his horse. After that, most likely he would wander some more. He cast a quick glance up and down the street, watching out for any more wagons or horses. Out of habit, his gaze briefly wandered past the low roofs at the end of the road and out to the horizon.

The sun slipped behind a small cloud and the world around him seemed to stop. He blinked and rubbed his face. Maybe some of the dust from the wagon had got in his eyes. No. The haze in the distance was unmistakable.

"That's all we need. Trail herders coming in here and tearing up the place." The harsh voice jarred him out of it. He looked over his shoulder at the speaker. The man was already walking away, shaking his head.

He looked back to the dust cloud rising beyond the horizon. They couldn't be more than a few miles away. A few more hours and it would be sundown. Probably make camp a mile or two the other side of town.

 

He took his time picking up what little gear he had from the hotel and saddling up his horse, hoping his insides would calm some by the time he was ready. His heart had stopped pounding but the churning in his stomach kept coming in waves.

He could ride alongside the herd from enough of a distance that he wouldn't be seen and the cattle wouldn't be bothered, matching its pace, until they bedded down. What he would do once they made camp was something else to worry about.

The cloud moved away from the sun and a warm breeze picked up, rustling the trees and sending waves through the grass. It would be smooth going for the herd through here. Riding in, he'd noticed a small creek a mile or so northwest of town. Perhaps not much for the cattle, but the men wouldn't go thirsty. If his replacement knew his business, he'd have found it sure enough.

The sun dipped lower and the world around him began to turn a golden hue. Behind him, the dust cloud grew ever larger.


	2. Chapter 2

Gil Favor could be a hard man to read at times, but when Colonel Heller asked Pete to sign on as an army scout permanently, his face and posture said it all. He had spent most of the discussion staring at the ground, unable to even look him in the eye. He understood why the colonel had asked, but wished he hadn't. He understood why Pete had agreed, but wished he hadn't. Sometimes Pete wished the same things.

He always felt kind of bad about leaving Gil in the position of having to go back and tell the others he was gone. At the time they hadn't had the opportunity for more than a quick 'so long'. When they'd met up again a few months later everything had happened so fast the two of them had hardly had any time at all. No opportunity to make up for lost time, and once again only a quick goodbye.

Gil's parting words to him on that last occasion were still fresh in his mind: "Much as we could use you, the army sure needs you more". He could almost laugh at the idea. At the time it had been reassuring, knowing that he didn't hold any bitterness or resentment towards him for leaving. But it wasn't long before it became clear that regardless of whether or not the army needed him, they certainly didn't want him.

He shook his head. No sense dwelling on that. It was done. He was gone. Pete didn't believe in dwelling too hard on the past. His job had always been to worry about what lay ahead, not about where he'd been.

He drew his horse to a stop and watched the herd trudge along and listened to the shaking grass. Straining to hear, he could just about make out the faint whoops and hollers drifting across the prairie. It made him smile, in spite of the weight in his chest. He would sure be glad to see them all again and he had little doubt they would be, too. He couldn't make anyone out at this distance, but he was sure it was Gil riding up front. Straight-backed, gaze always watching the horizon or sweeping the herd, on the lookout for any signs of trouble. Gil he was less sure of. More than two and a half years since they had last parted ways and he had never written in all that time. Granted, he was never much for letter-writing, but if Gil had given up on him because of that -or thought Pete had given up on him-, he wouldn't blame him.

The herd looked to be moving at a good pace. They ought to make it to that bedground by sundown with no trouble. For a moment he entertained the thought of riding up there, getting a fire going and waiting. Someone would spot the smoke and ride up to tell the boss. He would send someone to go check it out. Rowdy, most likely. He chuckled to himself, imagining Rowdy's look of wide-eyed surprise before it was replaced by one of his big crooked grins. 'Wait right here,' he'd say, still grinning, scrambling into the saddle and racing back to tell Mr Favor. A few minutes later, he'd be back. Right behind him would be Gil. He would dismount slowly, a look of disbelief on his face. And then...

He sighed and pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, digging the heel of his other hand into his thigh. Just his emotions playing tricks on him, he told himself. He unhooked his canteen from the saddle horn and took a quick swig. It didn't stop his mouth feeling dry. There was no way he could set his mind at ease until it was over and done with. He gathered up the reins and nudged his horse into a slow walk.

 

In the west the last of the sun's rays glared out over a low ridge in the distance, turning the sky and clouds orange and pink. He scrunched his face up and angled his hat against the sun. There was the creek, forming a trench in the surrounding land. Clumps of trees and low bushes ran up and down the bank on either side. Beyond that the grass was a lush green, a stark contrast to the dusty, sparse vegetation a few miles behind.

The cattle needed little pushing to go and drink or spread themselves across the grass. The riders surrounded them, keeping them from wandering too far. Further past the herd, Pete could just make out the wagons and the campfire already burning, its glow soft and inviting. His stomach growled and he remembered how little appetite he'd had the past few days.

He gave the herd a wide berth as he rode round. They had little reason to stampede, but he hadn't forgotten how easily they could be spooked. Most likely the men would be busy concentrating on the cattle and wouldn't notice him.

 

The colours faded from pink to purple to blue. The darkness descended rapidly and the shadowy brush kept Pete covered. He had dismounted a good distance from camp but he could just about hear Wishbone giving Mushy orders and directions. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone suggested Wish was in a good mood tonight. Jesús and a couple of wranglers were nearby, setting up the picket line and settling the horses. With slow, careful steps, he moved a little closer, his horse following behind. The smell of stew wafting over made his mouth water. He could walk in right now, maybe crack a joke, then wait for the others to arrive. It worked out fine the last time.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and unlooped the reins from the branch they were thrown over. Before he could even take a step, the sound of hoofbeats stopped him in his tracks. His horse shifted behind him. He reached a hand to it's face, slowly stroking it and making soothing noises under his breath, quieting it down. He looked back through the branches. Horses were being ridden in, dismounted and tied to the line. The air began to fill with chatter and laughter, along with yawns and grumbles of tiredness and hunger. A tightness took a hold of Pete's chest and he retreated a little further back into the branches. He dug his fingernails into the reins in his hand and chewed his lip, head swimming. Part of him was insisting this had always been a mistake. The best thing would be to just quietly leave before anyone realised he was there. But he also knew if he did he might never forgive himself. Another part was trying to push him forward, telling him to get into the light and get it over with. He knew that voice was the most sensible, but it wasn't the loudest. Yet another was saying to stay right where he was. That was much easier. No-one would see him, no-one would know he was there.

The faces in the firelight were a mix of the familiar and new. Quince and Scarlet hovering by the chuckwagon, Joe's arm resting on Jim's shoulder. Teddy, Narbo, Toothless, Bailey- he could pick them out in the groups forming. No sign of Rowdy. No sign of Gil.

He moved slowly towards the picket line, conscious of every snapping twig. He looped the reins in a loose knot around the rope, near where it was tied to the post. A nearby bay nickered quietly at his arrival. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. He gave its neck a quick stroke and it relaxed. He took a deep breath and ducked under the rope.

It was quiet, but everyone was already absorbed in their usual activities as they waited for supper, and Pete knew how to move silently, keeping close to the horses. Wishbone leaned over the fire, stirring something in a heavy cooking pot. He took a few steps closer. Wish seemed to notice the presence behind him, but didn't turn around.

He was almost surprised by how steady his voice was. "Stew again? After all this time I'd have figured you'd have found some new recipes." A few heads turned at his voice.

Wishbone growled, casting a glance over his shoulder, but not seeing Pete. "Now I've already heard enough cracks for one day-" He stopped and turned and the scowl vanished from his face. "Pete!" He grabbed Pete's hand and pumped it up and down, beaming.

"Mr Nolan!" Pete barely registered the joyous cry from the chuckwagon before Mushy barrelled into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. The others crowded round, chattering excitedly and laughing at the rib-crushing embrace Mushy had wrapped Pete in. Pete couldn't help but laugh too, though a little embarrassed by Mushy's enthusiasm.

Wishbone sighed. "Mushy, let the poor man go before you break his ribs."

Mushy stepped back, grinning and buzzing with excitement, allowing Pete to breath again. "It sure is good to see you again, Mr Nolan!"

Pete smiled. "Good to see you too, Mushy."

The others crowded round, and Pete found himself on the receiving end of a series of shoulder claps and enthusiastic handshakes.

"Pete, old buddy!"

"Señor Pete!"

"Sure glad to have you back, Pete."

"Long time, no see!"

"Didn't think you missed dust that much."

He nodded and smiled at all the greetings before turning to Quince. "Say, uh, where's Rowdy and Mr Favor?"

"Still out checkin' the herd. They oughta be back any time now-" Almost on cue, a single rider arrived at the picket line. Quince grinned. "Well, speak of the devil, there he is!" He looked a little less gangly than Pete remembered, and there was a weariness in his movements as he tied his horse, but he still had the same tufts of wild hair sticking out from under his hat. "Rowdy!" He called.

Rowdy looked up and his eyes widened. Then his face split into a wide, lopsided grin that made Pete's heart soar. "Pete!"

Pete grinned back as Rowdy bounded across camp. Again he found himself again enveloped in an enthusiastic, backslapping hug. "Hey, Rowdy!" He laughed, returning the hug, patting Rowdy's shoulder.

"Never thought I'd see you around here again!" Pete could hear the smile in Rowdy's voice as he let go, grin wide as ever. "You old son-of-a-gun, when did you get here?"

"He only come in a few minutes ago!" said Scarlet.

Rowdy glanced over his shoulder. "Mr Favor was right behind me just a minute ago- Mr Favor!" he called out, unaware of Pete's smile disappearing.

At the remuda, a tall figure dismounted his horse and ducked under the rope. He frowned at the small crowd, shadows dancing across his face. It had a few more lines and creases but there was no mistaking it.

And no mistaking the voice. "What's goin' on here?" He rumbled, voice heavy with tiredness, eyes scanning the group. Pete's chest felt hollow, but he did his best to muster up a smile. Gil's gaze met his and his expression flickered from confusion to recognition to disbelief. "Why, Pete!" he exclaimed, a broad smile transforming the weatherbeaten face.

Pete found his smile coming more naturally. He extended his hand as Gil crossed the short distance between them, chaps flapping with every stride. He ignored the proffered hand and wrapped Pete in an embrace so tight he was nearly lifted from the ground. A warm glow welled up inside him, his chest feeling close to bursting. He slid his arms around Gil's torso and dug his fingers into his shoulderblades, vaguely aware of the others trying to hide their grins.

It only lasted a few seconds, but standing there wrapped in Gil's long arms, breathing in the smell of cattle and tobacco, as far as Pete was concerned it could have been an hour.

Gil drew away first. His hands slid away from Pete's torso and clasped his hand and arm. It was a familiar gesture that Pete always liked.

For a second Gil had a rare stunned look about him before he found his voice. "What are you doin' here?"

Pete gave a sheepish smile. "Come to ask for my job back."

"Army finally got sick of you, huh?"

Quince's joke stung more than he let on, but he nodded. "More or less."

By his standards, Gil looked as overjoyed as Mushy had. "Well, you got it!" He let go of Pete's hand and propped his foot up on a log. "Why didn't you send word you was comin'?"

Pete shrugged. "Guess I wanted to surprise everybody."

"Well, we're sure glad you did!" grinned Rowdy.

Wishbone pushed through the assembled drovers, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. "Here you go, Pete," he said, pushing it into his hand. "Get some of that in you."

"What about the rest of us, Wish?" asked Quince, followed by murmers of agreement.

Wishbone rolled his eyes. Before he could say anything someone else piped up. "And where's our supper?"

"It's comin'," he said, glowering around as he hauled the pot off the fire. "I'd swear none of you ever have anything on your minds except steers and food!"

Pete trailed after him to the chuck wagon and watched while he stirred a handful of herbs into the stew, tasted a spoonful and nodded to himself.

"After livin' off whatever the army's been feedin' you all these years, I figured you'd appreciate some fine cooking," he said with a hint of pride.

Pete nodded pleasantly. "I sure would, Wish, but where am I gonna find any out here?"

Wishbone stuck his jaw out indignantly, knocking the ladle against the tin plate with more force than necessary while the others laughed. Pete simply smiled to himself as he headed over to one of the crates set out by the fire. He realised that the tightness and twisting of his insides had vanished. Surrounded by familiar faces and slipping back into the old routines, he hadn't even noticed. The warmth from Gil's embrace still lingered inside him. Or perhaps it was just from the fire. It didn't make any difference to Pete.


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't noticed it at first, but Gil's voice seemed to have gained a rougher edge. Even though he didn't appear to be angry about anything, there was a surliness to his tone. It puzzled Pete. Watching the herd earlier, and watching the activity around him now, he couldn't see any problems that might be eating at Gil. Maybe it had something to do with how he carried himself with the same tiredness as Rowdy.

 

He was only half-listening as Quince told him about some trouble they'd had on the trail in New Mexico Territory. He kept glancing back over to where Gil leant against the wheel of the chuckwagon. Even Pete often couldn't tell what went on inside his head.

"So, me and Wishbone, we rides into town. And there's Rowdy in the middle of the street with about half a dozen fellers tryin' to knock the livin' daylights outta him. Yes, sir, sure was one hell of a brawl." Quince chuckled to himself. "And then Wishbone comes wading in with a great big hunk of wood and-" He stopped and followed Pete's gaze.

By the wagon, Gil was nodding as Rowdy finished telling him something. Pete couldn't quite make out the words.

"Oh, Rowdy," he said, stopping Rowdy as he turned to leave. "Don't forget to get those barrels filled before we break camp tomorrow."

"Oh, I already did," he said matter-of-factly.

"You did?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I went and told Wish right after noon camp. I figured he'd take care of it."

"And you didn't bother to make sure?" Pete frowned at the increasing venom in Gil's tone.

Rowdy's eyes widened and his brow furrowed. "Well, I didn't think I needed to," he said, voice pitching higher, as if he couldn't understand what he was being attacked for.

"Oh, you didn't?"

"Mr Favor, sir?" Pete mentally commended Mushy's bravery in interrupting. "We already filled the water barrels before you got here. It was the first thing we did."

"Well, thank you, Mushy," he said with a humourless smile, then turned his glare back on Rowdy. "You know, I do like to know what's goin' on around here. So maybe next time you go deciding if something's important enough to need doin', you mind tellin' me?"

"Alright." He nodded again, hand rubbing his stomach, temper visibly simmering just below the surface. "Next time I will."

He gave Rowdy another thin smile. "Thank you, Mr Yates."

Rowdy wordlessly stalked past the fire. Pete watched him set himself down at the base of a tree and pull out his revolver. He pushed out the cylinder, slowly rotating it before snapping it back in place and replacing it in its holster with a sigh.

Gil was staring into his mug, avoiding looking at anyone. Quince could tell Pete wasn't much in the mood to hear the rest of his story, and instead concentrated on watching his cigarette smoulder. Everyone else had gone back to whatever they were doing before. Cards were picked up and laid down, conversations resumed. Quietly ignoring what happened. Somehow that bothered Pete even more.

 

Mushy hovered next to Rowdy, holding out a mug of coffee. Rowdy glanced up and took the offered cup with a nod. Mushy lingered for a second, then drifted away. He didn't drink any, just balanced it on his bent knee, holding the rim by his fingertips.

Pete made up his mind. It was such a turnaround from just a few minutes earlier that there had to something behind it, even if no-one else seemed to think it was worth worrying about. He stood at Rowdy's side, waiting to sit down. It was hard to make out his expression in the shadows. Hard to gauge whether he was in the mood for talking or listening or not.

"Rowdy?"

"Yeah, Pete?" The faint hint of a smile faded when he saw Pete's face. "What is it? Somethin' botherin' you?"

"Seems to me something's botherin' you." He settled on the ground next to him and nodded across camp. "What's going on between you and Mr Favor?"

Rowdy's brow knotted in puzzlement. "Nothing's going on. It was just an argument. What makes you think there's anything going on?"

"The way you talked to each other back there. I known the two of you to argue something fierce but I never known you to get that worked up over nothin'."

Rowdy watched Gil for moment. He was sitting on a crate now, writing in his trail log. "He's had a lot on his mind lately," he said. "We all have."

"Going's easy up ahead. That oughta put his mind at ease."

"Yeah."

"You don't sound like you believe it."

"I don't know." He shook his head.

Mushy nudged another piece of wood onto the fire. Gil sat and watched the flames dance, his face the usual unreadable blank.

"There's something different about him," Pete said. "I can't quite put my finger on what."

Rowdy sighed, fingers brushing across his nose. "Well, I'll tell you, Pete. Sometimes I get the feeling he thinks I'm still just a green kid who can't handle himself."

"That don't make sense. I seen you handle yourself, and I seen you handle a herd. You made some mistakes, sure, but you done a pretty good job of it. You certainly ain't a kid no more."

"At least you can see that. I don't think he can."

A thought occurred to Pete. He wasn't sure if asking about it might get him some kind of answer, or whether Rowdy would snap at him, too. He decided to risk it. "That why you don't have your own herd yet?"

Rowdy looked at him, then straight ahead at the fire. "I've had offers, turned them down. I bossed one once. Me and the boss- we had an argument and I quit. Then Mr Favor recommended me to this fella who wanted to get his herd in ahead of his. I made it, too. Then the next offer I got- I turned it down."

Pete watched him trace his finger along the rim of his coffee cup. "How come?"

"I wish I knew. Maybe I found out that running a herd yourself ain't the same as just taking over for a few days. Maybe I just ain't cut out for that kind of responsibility." A small twig lay next to his heel. He picked it up and pressed it with his thumb until it snapped. The fresh wood on the fire burst with a loud pop, sparks shooting upwards, then disappearing into the dark. "And besides, he's got enough to worry about without needing to find a new ramrod."

A few feet away came a burst of laughter as somebody finished telling a wild story. No doubt mostly made up. It felt at odds with their conversation.

Pete thought. Whatever he said, emotions could easily drown out his words. Especially Rowdy's. "You know, I never yet met a trail boss who don't question himself at least some of the time. Even Mr Favor. He'll never say so, but he do."

Rowdy gave a half smile. "Well, maybe one of these days."

Pete nodded. He gestured towards the poker game that was running. "You still as bad as I remember?"

"Let's find out."

 

Rowdy was almost exactly as bad a player as Pete remembered. His poker face had hardly improved any. He chewed his lip and glanced around at the others, then frowned at his cards. Pete knew how he felt- he didn't have much to work with, either. He'd discarded two bad cards and got two more bad cards in return. But he knew not to let everyone else know it.

With the warmth from the fire at his back and Rowdy at his elbow, he was enjoying the normalcy of it all. Except for the way his gaze kept flicking over to Gil. He sat closer to the fire now, cheroot dangling from his lips, hands curled around a mug.

"Pete?" Rowdy's bony elbow jabbed his side.

"Huh?"

"Well, I was just wondering," said Teddy. "If it ain't too personal or anything, why'd you leave? Seemed like you was doing a good job out there."

Rowdy nodded. "Yeah. Everyone told me about what happened with Wild Horse. Said you helped stop a war."

Pete kept looking at his cards. The last thing he wanted was praise. "Army didn't see it quite that way. Turned out we disagreed on some things." He looked up with a rueful smile. "Besides, I missed you fellas."

Quince took the hint and changed the subject. "You miss losing, too?" He lay down his hand with a grin. A straight.

"Pair of sixes," Pete sighed.

Rowdy grinned at him. "Two pair."

"Well, I bet you still ain't yet managed to fill an inside straight."

Rowdy pulled a face at him.

Everybody else managed to beat Pete's cards. Pete shrugged and excused himself from the next round.

"Think I'll wait to the end of the drive before I go losing any more."

Rowdy gave him a light punch on the arm. "You're just sore because you got a lousy hand."

 

That damned twisting in his stomach was back. Not as much as before, but he knew it wasn't because of the food. He touched Gil's shoulder and nodded towards the supply wagon. He wasn't sure what to say to him. He just knew he had to talk to him. Try and get some answers.

A few moments later Gil joined him in the shadows behind the wagon. Faint light glowed through the wheel spokes.

"Boss, what's wrong?" Before Gil could say anything he pressed on. "There's gotta be a reason you was giving Rowdy such a hard time over... over something like water barrels."

Gil shrugged. "Maybe I overreacted a little."

"Maybe you oughta tell Rowdy that." Even in the dark he could feel Gil's steady gaze on him. "There's got to be something behind it. Someone givin' you trouble, that it?"

He shook his head, looking towards the ground. "No. Ain't that."

"Well, what?" He was already starting to feel frustrated with Gil's evasiveness. "Boss, if something's botherin' you, just tell me."

"I'm not in the mood for this, Pete."

The words were out of Pete's mouth before he thought them through. "I think that's just the trouble. You ain't in the mood for anything."

His head snapped up. "What do you mean by that?" He demanded, voice hard.

"Looks to me like- well, like your heart ain't in this anymore."

"What does it matter if it ain't? The owners and the buyers don't care how I feel about it, just so long as I get those beeves to market!" Gil's voice was rising in pitch and volume. "You know, for a man who ain't been around for three years you seem to have a real good idea of everythin' that's been goin' on here."

Pete fought back the urge to start shouting back, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I don't want to argue with you, boss. Not tonight." He should have known he wouldn't take well to being confronted like this. He never did. Damn Gil Favor and his stubbornness. "Look, I didn't expect I'd come back to everything being exactly the way it was. A man changes in this kind of time. But it don't look to me like you changed for the better." He shook his head and began to walk away, already regretting most of what he said and how he said it. Wondering if he'd pushed Gil away before he'd even got close again.

"Pete!" He felt a hand touch his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but still stopped. "Pete, look, I didn't mean any of that." His voice had lost some of its harshness. Pete turned around. Gil wandered to the other end of the wagon and rested one hand against the wheel. "Tell the truth, I'm tired. Tired of pushin' thousands of cattle thousands of miles year after year, and tired of not gettin' anywhere with it." He glanced around at Pete. Pete could only just make out Gil's expression in the gloom, but the slumped shoulders and the rough edge to the deep voice told him that he was as tired as he said. "You know, not long after you were gone, I almost made it. Put down option money on a place, was about to go out and pay the fella the rest when things got in the way. Quarantine, a man dyin', everyone makin' trouble..." His hand balled into a loose fist against the wheel rim. "Lost the money, lost the place. So I started all over again. Been so long now I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get there. Meantime, Gillian and Maggie- they're growin' up without me."

The silence was broken by the murmur of conversation and occasional crackle from the fire the other side of the wagon.

"You'll make it one of these days."

"Yeah."

Pete realised how hollow his words must have sounded. Gil had no doubt been telling himself the same thing at the end of every drive, and believing it less and less.

He took a few steps closer and reached out a hand to Gil's shoulder, rubbing his thumb on the worn, cracked leather of his vest. After a moment, Gil rested his hand on top of his. He mimicked Pete's gesture, callused thumb rubbing across work-roughened skin. Pete slid his hand down from Gil's shoulder, slipping it under his vest and coming to rest on his ribs.

He began slowly. "You know, I've been gone from the army near two months now. Drifting around, trying to figure out what to do with myself, figure out if I done the right thing leaving. Two weeks ago I decided to come look for you. And every day those last two weeks I've been trying to make up my mind whether I was doing the right thing coming back here."

"Ain't like we had a falling out."

"No. Ain't like it was in Philadelphia. No, I-" He stopped and glanced at the ground and back up. They were close enough Pete could see his face. Look him in the eye. "Well, I was kind of worried you wouldn't want me back."

"Your job was always waiting for you, you knew that."

He shook his head. "It weren't the job I was worried about. Hell, I figured you'd have found yourself a new scout by now. Thought maybe you'd still let me ride drag or something," he added with a half-smile.

"Then what was was you worried about?"

He gave Gil a light squeeze, pressing his fingers into the softness over his ribs. "You and me, I guess. Whether you'd take me back." Gil gave him a puzzled look. "I don't mean as a scout, I mean as..." He trailed off. They had never used words like 'lover' or 'partner' to describe what they had. It just was.

Gil's expression softened and he gave a small shake of the head. "Pete, you oughta know better than that."

"I couldn't be that sure. Thought maybe you'd given up on me ever coming back. Three years is a long time. "

He raised an eyebrow. "How long was it after the war?"

"That was different."

"Maybe."

"We never expected to see each other again then. And last time I had someone wait years for me-"

Gil nodded. Pete had told him about Nora. "I know."

"Didn't even write," he added apologetically.

"Important thing is, you're here now." He closed the small gap between them and slid an arm round Pete's waist. "And what we got still goes, if you want it."

Pete broke into a smile. "You know it," he said. He wrapped his arm around him, pressing his fingers into the small of his back. His other hand lightly squeezed Gil's arm, thumb rubbing small circles on his bicep.

Gil's fingers reached up and brushed Pete's jaw. He closed his eyes at the touch. His insides fluttered and this time he relished the feeling. It was one he had missed. Gil slid his fingers into Pete's curls, other hand on the small of his back, holding him close. A second later, warm lips pressed against his own. He turned his head into the kiss, lips parting ever so slightly, taking in the taste of tobacco and bitter coffee. Pete didn't know a time when his kisses tasted of anything else.

He opened his eyes as they pulled apart, lips catching on each others'. For a moment they simply stood there, dazed, then Pete pushed down a little on Gil's shoulder. Gil followed his movement, sinking down alongside him, until they were both sat on the cool earth up against the wheel. Gil discarded his hat and shuffled closer.

Pete drew a knee up and tilted his head back to look at the sky, picking out the familiar patterns in the stars. Over by the campfire, someone had started up with a low, almost melancholy tune on a harmonica. Probably Mushy. Even Wishbone used to admit he could get a good sound out of the instrument.

Gil rested his head on Pete's shoulder, and he closed his eyes, the weight pressed against him a comforting presence. He slid his arm around Gil's back, hand resting on his waist just above his belt.

"So you stickin' around for good?" Gil asked, voice muffled from having his face buried in Pete's hair.

He decided not to open his eyes yet. "I think so. If I ain't- well, I won't take so many years to come back." He gave Gil a light squeeze.

Gil shifted next to him, and he felt the sensation of rough skin brushing against his cheek. He turned his head slightly towards Gil, enjoying the sensation as his lips lightly grazed his own.

"Pete..." Gil murmured, so quiet it was little more than a low rumble in his ear.

Pete turned in closer to Gil, nestling against him. He felt Gil's lips part slightly and pushed the kiss a little deeper. He wanted to take in as much of Gil as he could. Make up for those missing years.

As they drew apart, Pete's eyes opened on Gil gazing back at him. Almost all traces of the anger and tiredness from earlier had disappeared, replaced by a tender look that rarely showed itself, even to Pete.

"If you was having second thoughts about coming back," his thumb stroked Pete's jawline, "I take it you ain't no more."

Pete smiled. "I stopped having second thoughts soon as I walked in here."

Gil smiled at that, then leaned his head back on the wheel spokes, face relaxing and eyes drifting shut.

Pete rested a hand on Gil's soft stomach, feeling its slow rise and fall. He had missed quiet moments like these. Just the two of them, alone in the night. Sometimes far from camp, surrounded by darkness and the sounds of the prairie. Sometimes nearby, with the faint sound of conversation or music in the background. He hadn't missed the constant lingering smell of cow, but it somehow made him feel more at home.

He relaxed into Gil's arms and let his fingers explore, re-familiarising himself with the lines and contours of Gil's body, following his sharp jawline and running over the muscle and softness on his torso. He traced his fingertips over Gil's face. Over the lines born of stress and worry and age, of years spent squinting against the sun and the wind and the dust. Over the mole on his cheek and the slightly crooked nose. He could still remember the fight where Gil got it broken.

"You gonna do anything or ain't you?" Gil's voice was deadpan, but the corners of his mouth gave away the hint of a smile.

"Long time since I seen this face; just getting to know it again."

He cracked one eye open and raised an eyebrow. "Sure you don't know a better way?"

Pete nodded with mock seriousness. "I reckon I do." He placed a hand on Gil's cheek, turning his face towards his own. Gil didn't need any more prompting, as he slid a hand round the back of Pete's head, pulling him into a soft kiss.

Briefly pulling away, Pete shifted and swung his leg over Gil's so he now straddled his thigh, Gil running his hands up and down his sides. He held on to the wheel spokes as he leaned in and pressed his lips to Gil's, flicking his tongue out. He felt a slight squeeze on his waist as Gil responded in kind. He gave him a quick smile, then began to place light kisses along his cheek and jaw, lips skimming over faint stubble and weather-toughened skin. Gil tilted his head slightly, exposing the skin above his bandana. As Pete continued down his neck towards the worn blue fabric, Gil let out a barely audible moan. Almost a sigh. Pete pulled away, grinning. For a moment Gil didn't react, eyes still closed, lips slightly parted. Pete enjoyed catching him like this. In those brief moments of vulnerability where he wasn't hiding anything.

Gil's eyes fluttered open. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, finally turning into a rare grin as he wrapped his arms around Pete, pressing their torsos together. He held him close, fingers digging into his shoulder and waist, breath tickling the back of his neck. Pete had the feeling it was his way of trying to say how much he had missed him. He hadn't expected him say it out loud, it wasn't in his nature.

"I oughta leave more often if this is the kind of welcome back I get," he said into Gil's neck.

Gil gave him a squeeze in reply.

Pete twisted himself round in Gil's arms and settled himself between his legs, head resting back on his chest. He could feel Gil's heartbeat slow as he nestled against him, wishing he could sink deeper into the warm embrace, and he let his eyelids drift shut. Gil slid an arm across his chest and threaded the fingers of his other hand into Pete's hair.

"Tired?"

"Long day," he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"I'll bet. You want to go back to camp, get out your bedroll?"

"Not just yet."

"Well, I ain't gonna complain." Gil gave his hand a squeeze.

"Seems there's a lot more I missed out on than I realised. Even if everything looks almost how I left it," he said, shifting the subject back to earlier.

"Almost. You know how it is on a trail drive, hands come and go."

"A lot of the old faces still around."

"Most of 'em. Teddy, Narbo, Toothless; they all went and worked other trails for a while. Collins is gone. Heart gave out."

Pete felt a small pang in his chest. He'd always liked Collins.

Gil disentangled his hand from Pete's hair, and something shifted around by his head. He realised Gil was fishing around in his shirt pocket for a cheroot and matches.

"You know, there's one thing nobody's told me yet," said Pete, glancing up.

Gil struck a match on his thumbnail. "What's that?"

"Whatever happened to Clay Forrester?"

"Clay? Oh, he's long gone." He lit his cheroot and shook the match out. "Took off at the end of one drive sayin' he'd found something else to try his luck with." He blew some smoke. "Knowin' him he probably made it, too."

"Always was sure of himself."

Gil shook his head. "Sometimes I ask myself why I kept him around, with all the trouble he caused."

"You always said he was a good drover." He reached his hand up and Gil passed him the cheroot.

"He was."

Pete took a draw. He raised his eyebrows as he passed it back. "Worth the trouble?"

Gil gave a dry chuckle. "I wonder."

 

They stayed there by the wagon wheel for a few minutes longer, lazily passing the cheroot back and forth, Gil resting his cheek on Pete's head. Pete idly wondered if anyone had noticed how long they'd been gone for. They probably had, and probably knew why. Most of them did. The two of them just liked their privacy.  
Eventually, Gil ground the cheroot out on the ground and stretched out his long legs, picking up his hat.

"Be warmer over by the fire," he said.

"I'm plenty warm enough here," Pete teased.

Gil gave him a look and lightly swatted his shoulder with his hat as he stood. Pete grinned back and pulled himself to his feet, brushing dirt off his jeans.

They circled round the back of the wagon. Before they stepped completely into the light, Pete stopped him. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to apologise to Rowdy. For earlier."

Pete must have put him in a good mood, because Gil looked at him for a second, then nodded. "Guess not."

Wishbone glanced up at them as they walked past, then pretended to concentrate very hard on kneading the dough in front of him. Pete could swear he was hiding a smile, and that he wasn't the only one. He supposed they weren't being all that discreet.

He trailed behind Gil as they headed over to where Rowdy sat hunched over by the campfire.

"Rowdy."

He looked up. "Yeah, boss?"

Gil's gaze wandered to look everywhere but at Rowdy. "About earlier. Guess I was a being little unreasonable about the water barrels. You did fine." He glanced over his shoulder at Pete. "And, well... I'm sorry for biting your head off."

Rowdy visibly relaxed, though still looked a little wide-eyed. "It's okay, boss," he said, scratching his cheek. "Uh, thanks."

Gil nodded, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Rowdy managed a small grin.

Pete was grateful when Quince spoke up, interrupting the awkward silence. "Say, Rowdy, that old guitar still in the wagon?"

Rowdy blinked in confusion at the sudden change of subject, but nodded. "Yeah." Then his face lit up with realisation. "Yeah! Hey, Pete, you still play any?"

"Might be a little rusty, but I can give it a go," he said.

 

There had usually been a guitar or two lying around at the forts he found himself at, but he rarely had the chance to play as much as he would have liked. It always helped take his mind off things.

He pulled his crate a little closer to a small log and propped his foot up. He balanced the battered instrument on his thigh and gave it an experimental strum. Someone must have played it fairly recently because it didn't sound too out of tune.

"Play something cheerful," suggested Joe as Pete fiddled with the tuning pegs. He brushed his thumb down the strings. Close enough.

"No, something sweet," someone else said.

Pete nodded and started up with a ballad he'd picked up down in Laredo once. He couldn't remember the words, so he hummed the melody. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gil sitting near his elbow, watching closely as his fingers moved across the frets. Pete's mouth twitched into a small smile when he noticed Gil was humming along with him.

"Why don't you sing something, Pete?" suggested Rowdy when he finished playing. There was a chorus of agreement.

He nodded. "Alright. Hey, Mushy," he said. "That you playing that harmonica earlier?"

Mushy went wide-eyed and nodded.

"How's about you play along with me?"

He grinned. "Sure thing, Mr Nolan!"

"You know 'The Dying Cowboy', don't you?"

"I think so."

"I'll hum it for you."

He did, gently picking the strings. Mushy picked it up after a few bars and the harmonica's gentle warble joined his playing. A hush settled across camp as he began.

_"'O bury me not on the lone prairie.'_  
_These words came low and mournfully_  
_From the pallid lips of the youth who lay_  
_On his dying bed at the close of day..."_

As he sang, he realised another voice had joined his own. Rowdy's. He'd heard it on a number of stretches on night guard, when he wasn't singing himself. It wavered some, but he could carry a tune well enough. In spite of the sombre lyrics, Pete found himself smiling. He probably would have been even without Rowdy's accompaniment. With Gil and Rowdy sat either side of him, warm fire in front of him and good food in his stomach, he hadn't felt this content in a long time.

 

The next morning was an early start. Pete had filled Gil in about the terrain he'd come through on his way in, including some possible bedground he'd identified about fifteen miles north, and Gil was keen on making it by sundown.

Pete rode near the head of the herd. The beeves were moving at a good pace, and everyone seemed in good spirits. Gil gave the morning's orders with his usual firmness, though his mood seemed to have improved from the previous night.

Rowdy loped up, alarming a few nearby steers. He drew his horse up alongside Pete's and twisted around in the saddle.

He grinned at him. "Still think you missed all this?" He gestured back at the herd stretched back across the prairie.

"Yeah, I guess I have." He glanced across at Rowdy, then at Gil riding out ahead. "But I think I missed the company even more."


End file.
